


Duet

by sheron



Series: Reconstruction [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Drama, Espionage, Friendship, Gen, Healing, POV Jack Thompson, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spies & Secret Agents, Survivor Guilt, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7000003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jack's MI5 friend is shot, he and Peggy visit London to attend the funeral and find themselves swept up in espionage and intrigue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loverofstories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverofstories/gifts).



> Written for the SSR Confidential fic exchange. Although it's meant as a part of a series, this story can stand on its own. Thanks to Sholio for all her help.

"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you."― Elbert Hubbard

 

 

October weather in Heathrow was a cool fifty degrees that morning, which suited Jack better than the constant heat of California, but he caught Peggy shivering in her light coat as they walked the runway to the ride waiting to take them into the city. She'd changed into a fresh, blue, wrinkle-free dress in the last hour of the flight, and reapplied her makeup, but the wind now tousled her hair in gusts, denting the image. The sky was spitting out occasional drops of rain into their faces, but not enough for an umbrella.

"Home sweet home," Jack lobbed in her general direction, but Peggy only grunted in response.

He was glad for her non-communicativeness. Through their overnight flight he'd thrown up the biggest "Do Not Approach" sign he was capable of exhibiting through his body language, and it finally seemed to have stuck. He didn't want to talk, didn't want her opinion, and didn't want her sympathy.

Peggy was going straight to her old home to visit her family. Jack was headed to the Savoy hotel in Central London, before heading to the funeral. Matt, who'd been as eager to get involved with Jack's plans when they had studied together in Cornell as he was when Jack had asked him to retrieve that cursed file from the Military Intelligence storage, had probably paid for his helpfulness with his life. He was found dead in his own kitchen by his sister after he hadn't shown up for work. A gunshot to the chest.

Jack got the phone call at the L.A. SSR office from Matt's mother. Mrs. Walker thought Jack might want to be at the funeral of his old university pal. Hearing the details of how they found him, Jack felt blood drain from his face so fast he nearly felt woozy. 

An hour later Peggy had sudden urgent business in London, getting to the bottom of the M. Carter file that seemed to be leaving a trail of bodies in its wake (or in Jack's own case, a rather spectacular survival story). She had the perfect excuse of wanting to see her mother and father, still living in their old house in the Hampstead village of London. Jack could hardly argue with her implacable face, even if he thought her decision to travel suspiciously spontaneous. Daniel wanted to come as well; Jack saw his torn expression and tried to quickly shut that down, reminding Daniel of his duties at the SSR. Dealing with Peggy was bad enough, he didn't need them tag-teaming him. In the end Peggy promised to call Daniel every day.

A long, turbulent flight later, they piled into the leather seats of a black cab on the other side of the Atlantic, while the driver held the door for them with starched white, gloved hands. The cabbie started driving the car without asking for an address, which gave Jack a sudden invasive vision of the two of them ending up in a ditch somewhere. So maybe he was a bit on edge. Peggy sorted out the issue by saying, "My father arranged for a ride for us."

Jack's temper spiked. She thought he'd just fall in line. He turned to Peggy in anger, not even having to say the words. He only had two hours until the start of the service followed by the funeral, not enough time to accommodate making new acquaintances. Cold and grouchy, both of them were hardly fit for human company just then, and they'd definitely had enough of each other on the plane.

She looked unruffled by his glare. "Jack, the Highgate Cemetery is thirty minutes by foot from my family's house. Your hotel room's check in isn't for a few hours. You can have a meal with us and change before the service, without criss-crossing London after another fifteen-hour flight." Peggy's terse words left a silence before she added, almost an after-thought, "Don't be foolish."

The last thing Jack wanted was to have to put up with more well-meaning people prying into his affairs. He was ready to chew through the leather of his gloves as he briskly tugged them off with his teeth. "I'm not good company today."

"So business as usual, then."

When Jack didn't respond, she sighed, trying a different track, softer. "I promise you it'll be an informal affair. And you are free to leave for your hotel in the evening, if that's what you prefer. I insist you come with me now."

"Oh, well if you _insist_ ," Jack said sarcastically, staring out of the window. He'd known this would happen; she'd trick him into letting her have her way somehow. A small childish voice inside him wondered if he could have fought her on this harder, but the idea of being alone in a hotel room seemed all at once singularly unappealing to him. No wonder about why. Peggy probably figured that out about twenty hours earlier than he had. Moodily staring out of the car window seemed like the most productive thing his brain was capable off on almost no sleep for two days, so he committed to it with sincerity.

"That's settled, then." She leaned back in her seat.

The drive to Hampstead was a ways, and they made it about halfway before Peggy turned to speak to him, just as Jack finally figured out what he wanted to ask her. They spoke over each other.

"Maybe mentioning the funeral isn't―"  
"What do your folks know about your job?"

Peggy cleared her throat. "Right. So, they know I work in Intelligence, but no details. They know not to ask."

Jack nodded, his question answered. "You were gonna say...?"

"Just that I never told them the purpose of your visit." She looked almost shy for some reason Jack couldn't discern. "They've been through a lot...Maybe if you say you're leaving for business this evening that would be best...?" 

"Fine by me," Jack agreed readily. If he could pretend for another couple of hours that he didn't have a lousy evening ahead of him, all the better. 

Silence reigned in the car again as the cabbie drove through the windy streets of the suburbs. Jack had spend so much of his life in situations just like this, being shuttled to the next goal, the next objective, sitting in uncomfortable seats next to tired people with ambitions and goals of their own. He'd gotten good at noticing what drove others, which is why Peggy's insistent presence puzzled him. He couldn't find an easy explanation for it, knowing only that she hadn't hopped on a flight to Britain just to play chaperone for him. Her overt goal was to dig deeper into the sources behind the M. Carter file that had been stolen from Jack's hotel room, but they hadn't had time to discuss her methods before getting on the commercial flight from L.A. to Denver, and from that point on it had been an unrelenting sequence of commutes, all in public where they couldn't talk shop. Was it really as simple as visiting her folks? Jack didn't trust that for a second.

He felt it when they were getting close to Peggy's house, because she sat up straighter in the seat, and began looking around and ahead through the windows. The expression on her face was something of wistful longing. 

"Just up ahead," she murmured when they rolled up to an open high-iron gate. Peggy's parents lived in a well-off area of London, with a professionally landscaped yard; their house, while not sprawling, was large and well-groomed. Looking around Jack couldn't see much bomb or fire damage to the street or the neighbouring houses either. This area had escaped the Blitz relatively intact, unlike a lot of the more central London, and what damage had been there had been repaired in the two years since the war by the affluent local population.

Peggy was practically bouncing on her seat and sprang from the black cab as soon as it rolled to a stop on the gravel driveway, surrounded by perfectly trimmed deep green grass. The air was fresh after the morning rain, and the stone facade of the house gleamed in the occasional rays of the sun that cut through the dark clouds overhead.

An older lady, with her dark hair tied back in a bun, the lightly wrinkled face splitting into a joyous expression, stepped outside even as Peggy ran up the stairs of the house.

"Oh, my dear." Mrs. Carter's hands reached out and Peggy was flying into them. They embraced and Mrs. Carter peppered Peggy's dark hair with kisses, shutting her tear-filled eyes for a moment of bliss. "How I've missed you!"

Peggy's voice was wobbly as she pulled back to look at her mother. "I missed you too, Mum."

Jack had never seen her look more like a little girl. He walked up slowly towards the entrance to the house, dawdling to give the two women time to collect themselves. Looking around at the well-maintained garden in front of the house, he could imagine Peggy playing here as a kid. The sprawling tree off to the side bore all the hallmarks of being used for a swing; Jack had a tree just like that back where he grew up, an ocean away. With a pang, he thought of how Peggy must always treasure the memories of her home, so far away from where she lived now.

After the emotional moment subsided, Peggy's mother turned to the guest Peggy had brought with her.

"Is this Daniel?" Mrs. Carter looked Jack up and down with a certain amount of hope she wasn't able to hide.

"No, Mum," Peggy hurried to correct her. It amused Jack that she'd told her mother about Daniel, enough that Peggy's parents evidently anticipated meeting him someday. "This is Jack Thompson; we are colleagues. He is in town for _business_."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am." Jack tipped his hat. "Daniel's in California. He couldn't come on account of work."

"Oh, that important was it?" Mrs. Carter looked to Peggy with interest.

"Well, he is Chief of the West Coast agency," Jack put in, pretending ignorance of the look Peggy shot him. He went casually on, "Many people depend on him." 

"Well!" Mrs. Carter's face brightened considerably over those words. "Maybe I could meet him another time." After a significant glance at Peggy, she turned to Jack again. "You seem like a charming young man, please come inside to meet my husband."

Jack resisted looking at Peggy as he passed her by; he was sure she'd be rolling her eyes. Having mostly won Mrs. Carter over by the time they hit the elegant living room, Jack's introduction to Mr. Carter went smoothly. They shook hands and made the usual remarks about "the weather lately". Jack assured Peggy's parents they were missing nothing of the California's sun ("uncomfortably hot"), which earned him hmms and haws, all with a certain pleased superiority gleaming in their committed-Londoner eyes. 

"It's a dry heat," Peggy said, deadpan.

Peggy's mother set the pot for the tea while they waited for toasted bread. Britain was still rationing the food, so the lunch of bacon, salad and some potatoes was austere but well-made. Aside from black loose-leaved tea, Peggy had brought orange jam with her from America so they had that with the tea after lunch.

Skillfully diverting the conversation from any difficult subjects, Peggy and Jack made small-talk about the visit to London (so good to be back), about work (you know, keeping busy), about England's politics (on which Mr. Carter had a few choice words and Jack kept his mouth shut) and the bid for the city to host Summer Olympics next year, which everyone hoped would shine some light on the city slowly recovering after the war.

At some point Peggy mentioned the time and suggested that Jack be allowed to change in private in one of the guest rooms upstairs. Mrs. Carter immediately offered to let him stay the night, which Jack demurred, citing his pending hotel reservation at the Savoy. Mr. Carter offered to have a driver deliver Jack's bags to the hotel, with the same sort of sensible practicality Jack had come to expect from Peggy. She took Jack up to the guest room, after she and her father had a bit of a tug of war over her own heavy suitcase, and who would carry it up the stairs. Peggy won.

"This was Michael's room," Peggy said when they went inside one of the bedrooms, a strange note in her voice. Jack nodded, having nothing to say in response, feeling the heaviness of the moment. After a moment, she nodded back and left him to it, shutting the door behind her.

Jack set his bag on the floor and looked about, at the simple bed and light-wood furniture in the room, and no signs of habitation. The room was cleaned regularly since there was no dust anywhere, and the window was open to let the leafy scent of October air inside. There was a photo on the mahogany desk by the window. He'd seen a similar picture on the ancient mantelpiece downstairs. Both showed a young man in uniform, his features unmistakably characterized with familial resemblance.

For a long time, Jack hadn't bothered to know more about Peggy than what was in her official SSR file ― dead brother Michael, joined Bletchley Park, then the SOE, then the SSR as a British Liaison only to meet Steve Rogers, who was lost at sea towards the end of the war. Seeing the picture of a young man prominently displayed around the house somehow made everything more real. There'd been a person, there, another someone Peggy had loved and lost to the war.

After he shaved in the bathroom and changed into a new striped shirt and tie from the suitcase, he headed downstairs, pausing at the top of the stairs, observing Peggy in her natural habitat without being seen. She was sitting on the sofa with one leg underneath her, explaining about a friend of hers from New York (Martinelli, whom Jack remembered only as a sobbing mess from that incident at the Griffith, but who was apparently starting an acting career on Broadway) and about Peggy's coworkers at the SSR, how she got along with them. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about the dedication of the people she worked with to their jobs and to each other. 

Peggy loved her job. Not the SSR, that was just a title ― the job of doing something meaningful with your life, serving an ideal. That was something that Jack hadn't understood for the longest time, but now felt it down to his bones. Some people turned to their families, others to duty. Like him, she needed the job to keep sane after the war.

Jack realized with startlement that Peggy's parents probably had no idea about what she did for a living, or Steve Rogers, or how close he and Peggy had been. The video recordings of his exploits and the Betty Carver radio show were all over the place, but Peggy's identity as Cap's girl had remained classified and nobody outside the SSR even knew the full story, such as it was. According to the water-cooler gossip at the office, they'd never even gone out on a date ― not something you wrote home to parents about.

How much did anybody know about Peggy Carter, sitting in her parent's living room, looking like any twenty-six year old, but having the experience of several lifetimes packed in her tiny frame? Most people who met her would never really know her.

Jack's impulsive revelation of his deepest secret to her, combined with Peggy's general perceptiveness, had always made Jack uncomfortable with the subsequent ease with which she could figure out his motivations. He'd gotten so used to keeping his cards close to the vest that having another person look at him and _know_ him threw his world askew. It was a thrilling combination of fear and wonder, and even now Jack was still getting used to it. 

But in all of this, he had never imagined that he knew Peggy, too. The stuff with Rogers, that was no secret among the people they both worked with. And yet, here in London, Jack was perhaps the only person who knew this enormously significant part of Peggy's life. He was no Sousa, and she'd never confided in him, but he had seen her in action and knew the kind of woman, the kind of an Agent that Peggy was down to his bones. Peggy's parents had no idea. They dreamed of their little girl marrying well someday, to an important Chief of the West Coast SSR, and living a boring, content little life. Jack looked at Peggy, leaning back on the armchair like a queen holding court, and knew with certainty what a loss to the world that would be. Here, in her childhood home more than anywhere before, he was sure that Peggy would be in the thick of the action, making history not just living it, no matter the sacrifices she would have to make.

With this realization, Jack felt an enormous relief. It wasn't quite as powerful as the feeling he'd had after telling her of his biggest, terrible mistake, but it was close. All this while he'd been wondering if Peggy was trustworthy, if she'd meant it when she told him she believed in him and didn't just say it to get him on her side of the fight. If she was even _knowable_ , and Jack was capable of knowing her. All that worry was pushed aside now. He knew Peggy Carter. He knew exactly the kind of a person she was because Peggy was like him: trying to swim in deep water with a fast current that threatened to drag you down.

"Hey Peggy, can I talk to you for a minute?"

They all glanced up surprise as he came down the stairs, but Peggy rose and followed him out to the foyer after excusing herself.

"What is it?" She looked so serious, almost concerned. He never asked her for anything, not really.

"You don't have to say yes," Jack said, because it was important to him that she had a choice, "And if you have evening plans with your family, that's understandable." He saw her curiosity rise at the preamble, and hurried through before he lost his nerve, "But I would like it if you accompanied me tonight to Matt's funeral. I'd be grateful," he added at the end.

Peggy looked like he'd asked her to be the Godmother to his firstborn, so thrilled to be asked that Jack felt awkward all over again. "Of course," she said quietly. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. The play of light through the glass door in the foyer made Peggy's face a study of contrasts. Her brown eyes blazed and somehow comforted him.

"I'll go see what I have to wear," she started to turn, hesitated and turned back. "I hoped you'd ask."

Jack smiled at her back as she left. She'd probably dragged him to her childhood home with the intention of softening him up. Maybe she even picked Michael's room on purpose. He'd never know if he'd fallen for her trick, but no matter. He was alright with that. Jack knew Peggy Carter, and the rest was just details. 

Peggy's parents were considerably less pleased about their daughter's sudden change of plans. Their queries about why she had to leave for the evening were brushed aside with a quiet but firm voice.

"I'm sorry, it's work. You know I can't talk about that."

"Work. Duty. You always talk like an old woman." Mrs. Carter shook her head. "The war's taken away so much already: don't let it take your youth, too."

"I'm not, Mum." Peggy tried to wear a reassuring smile. She was wearing a long black jacket that hid the dark navy dress underneath, and black shoes. "I have to go. I'll see you tonight."

Jack had put on his own solid black tie and black shoes. Combined with his black coat and Peggy's attire, he wondered if Peggy's parents hadn't guessed a bit more than they let on ― he saw the look Mr. Carter gave him before they left ― but it was for the best they knew as little as possible. Maybe they thought it was a formal dinner Jack and Peggy were heading off to. They'd been happily oblivious of Peggy's exploits throughout the years, and it was evidently their daughter's wish to keep it that way.

Jack's last view of the Carters was of Peggy's mother waving from the steps of the house as a cab took them away again.  


 

* * *

 

Asking Peggy to come with him had felt right at the time, but Jack struggled not to let awkwardness settle in between them as the new cab took them to the Highgate cemetery in northern London. They should have each been old hands at attending funerals by now, there'd been so many during the war. They had both attended Krzeminski's funeral in New York, although it had been a less staid affair, with a somewhat rowdy wake in a pub afterward. Jack had spent a good half hour of it outside the pub comforting Krzeminski's distraught girlfriend, who had been too ashamed to show up at his funeral where Krzeminski's wife had stood white-faced and resolute by the grave, and was subsequently upset (loudly and messily into Jack's shirt) about not saying her goodbyes in time. Eventually he'd gotten her calmed and made her promise she'd go straight home to her family instead of being alone all evening, then rejoined the others inside the pub having done his duty by the deceased however distasteful he personally found the affair. Krzeminski's wake had been followed by more funerals in the wake of the Leviathan attack on New York, Chief Dooley's among them.

The cemetery they were heading to now was much older than most places in the States. He'd packed a black umbrella, and Peggy had snagged her own before leaving the home at Hampstead, and both came in handy once the car rolled to a stop by the main gate from the south, up the narrow one-way Swain's Lane. The iron-cast fence towered at fifteen feet around the West Gate Cemetery, where the service would be held at the Church of England Chapel, before the casket would be moved for the actual burial ceremony on the more modern East side.

The Victorian architecture gave a somber character to the already melancholy proceedings as Jack and Peggy walked towards the Chapel side-by-side, in silence, the tips of their umbrellas occasionally touching. Peggy's heels echoed on the cobble stones and the sound ricocheted off the massive stone buildings.

Jack hadn't attended many funeral services in a church: the burials on the front had been swift, often held at sea, off Okinawa. This was an Anglican chapel, with a minister welcoming the mourners to the service. Jack and Peggy stepped inside the Chapel along with the other guests, coming in pairs or families, all of them strangers to Jack. Inside, after taking a look around he touched Peggy's elbow and motioned for the corner where they would have a good view of the room. The family of the deceased was already seated at the front. Jack recognized the profile of Matt's sister, two years younger, her head bent towards the silver haired woman beside her who had to be Mrs. Walker. The Chapel's hall wasn't full, maybe fifty people total, and Jack could only assume most were co-workers since Matt wasn't that outgoing a person. Hadn't been.

People around them conversed in quiet whispers, but Jack and Peggy had nothing to say to each other. Whatever tentative connection they'd built back at Peggy's old home was strained by their lack of sleep, a bone-deep exhaustion, the heavy atmosphere of grief in the building, the cool damp air that seemed to seep under the layers of clothing. All of it lent an almost hypnotic effect to the proceedings. Jack sat half-dazed through the prayers, and was for some reason reminded of attending exams at Cornell with Matt. He'd been exhausted then too, not having studied until the last moment and then cramming for the final the night before. Matt had of course followed the course diligently and had a smug smile on his well-rested face every time Jack stifled a yawn with his fist. Jack had beat his score and made sure to rub that in. In those university days it had felt like an accomplishment, before the war had started and Jack learned what it was to be truly tired, so tired he could sleep while standing up. Matt had gone back home to Britain after the university and eventually ended up in the Security Service. He'd never seen the front, working in London during the war. He wasn't supposed to die the way he had, not in peace time.

Indifferent to the prayer for forgiveness that echoed in the high hall of the chapel, Jack studied the profiles of men and women gathered inside. There was a smattering of older-generation people, connected no doubt through family and social links such as neighbourhood and church. Besides those, slightly further back in the pews with girl-friends and wives at their side, Jack could easily identify men who looked so similar in attire and manner they could have passed for Matt in a lineup. His co-workers. Jack studied them more closely.

At some point he felt cold fingers brush the top of his palm and held back a flinch. Peggy had startled him. When he turned his face towards her in silence, she motioned with a chin in the direction of one of the men. Jack studied him more carefully; Peggy's instincts were rarely wrong.

The man that Peggy pointed out was of average height and build, pale with a hook nose and a weak-looking chin. He looked to be in his forties, silver just starting in the temples of his dark hair. He sat slightly apart from the other men in his pew, clearly separated by something indefinable. Perhaps his station.

Not many people could have known that Jack retrieved the file from London and brought it with him to L.A. Assuming the SSR office in L.A. hadn't been bugged (and they'd had it swept twice even before Jack had left the hospital, finding nothing) and assuming Vernon Masters hadn't told others about the file (which seemed unlike the cagey old man), one of the remaining angles of investigation would be in London. Someone at the Secret Service where Matt had worked might have noticed the file's absence or been involved somehow. The coworkers close enough to attend Matt's funeral seemed like a good place to start.

Jack didn't get a chance to find out why Peggy had singled the man out until the church service ended and people rose to follow the casket to its final resting place in the East half of the cemetery.

Outside it was barely drizzling, but Jack offered his umbrella to share so that they could talk in confidence.

"William Fisher," Peggy explained quietly once they'd fallen some steps behind the main group of mourners following the minister and the casket. Wet gravel crunched under their shoes and their shoulders touched occasionally as he bent his head to listen. "Agent Matt Walker's boss and the man who has so far refused every one of Chief Sousa's official requests for information about Walker's death. Agent Fisher has made himself quite difficult to get a hold of."

Jack considered Peggy's words and her presence at the funeral. "You plan to ambush him at a weak moment?"

"He might let something slip that he wouldn't otherwise. I'll approach him when he tries to leave."

Jack thought it just crazy enough to work. "And if I hadn't invited you with me? Were you going to scale the fence to get to him?"

"I would have talked my way inside if I had to." Peggy blithely dismissed his concern.

"It seems that you did," Jack said wryly.

Peggy hesitated. "That wasn't―." She crossed her arms in front of her. "I hadn't planned it from the start, but I saw the opportunity once you invited me―"

"Peggy," Jack stopped her. "Do you think I'm mad about that?"

She cut him a sideway glance, lifting an eyebrow when she noticed a half-smile curving his lips.

"I wouldn't expect you to pass up the chance. I have a vested interest in figuring this out, remember?"

An answering smile flitted briefly over her lips. They'd finally gotten to the point where they could work together and neither wanted to jeopardize that. A moment of shared understanding was broken by the pause in the procession as they arrived at the grave site. The surrounding gravestones presented a varied picture of the views on afterlife: many sites had molded angels and poignant inscriptions on the elaborate mossy gravestones.

As the minister started the committal prayer, Jack kept an eye on Fisher. Did he know something about who shot Matt and was keeping it to himself? Or was he as caught blind by all this as they were?

Since revealing that Jack had gotten the M. Carter file through Matt was out of the question, the British Intelligence would not be able to see the link between Matt's death and Jack's own shooting months earlier. They had to think Matt's death was an isolated incident. The surface connection of college friendship served as an explanation for Jack being at the funeral and perhaps even any questions he might ask about the investigation into Mike's death, but he would be accorded no special treatment. Any official request from the SSR to assist with the investigation would only draw suspicion their way, something Jack needed as little as possible of after the recent shake ups back home. As much as it pained him to admit, Peggy's covert methods of pulling information out of people through unofficial channels looked like the only possible play under the circumstances.

Jack felt a longing for the resources of the SSR and the familiar backing of a team behind him. For the moment, he and Peggy were on their own in London.

Even as he thought this, the mourners began to break away and head on home having said their final goodbyes. Peggy nodded at him and peeled off to follow Agent Fisher down the gravel path among the graves they'd come from earlier, leading to the main road. 

Jack hung back. Mrs. Walker and her daughter were standing stock still in front of Matt's grave even as the rest of the crowd broke apart and was leaving in quiet waves. For a moment he thought about approaching them but this wasn't the time. Besides, the wake would be held tomorrow in a local church hall — he'd offer his condolences then. Mentally, he said goodbye to Matt and tried to put it out of his mind.

Another man, older and pudgy with it, in an ill-fitting suite was idling nearby. He had every appearance of someone down on his luck and even his folded black umbrella looked like it had seen better days.

"What a shame," the man said to Jack by way of opening, giving it a moment before skipping to what really interested him, "You don't seem like you're from the office...?" The way he said it, it could only mean one thing: Matt's workplace at the MI5.

"What gave it away?" Jack said in his overtly American accent. He thought the man didn't look much like he was from "the office" himself. He had an air about him of a small-time crook, something about the way his eyes couldn't settle on any one thing like he was already looking for a way out.

The man chuckled mirthlessly. "I saw Agent Fisher turning up his nose at your little lady. That's the kind of man he is. Won't give you a time of day if he sees no use for you."

Jack considered this, and the obvious invitation to be a different kind of man. He extended his hand, "Jack Thompson." 

"Gerald Penn," the man's face brightened while his sweaty palm gripped Jack's hand and shook twice. "As I was saying. Walker was a nice chap." He looked around as though he expected to be interrupted.

"He was," Jack said and then added because it was burning him up, "The cowards that did this will pay."

Gerald's glance at him turned shrewd at once. "Maybe you are from the office after all. MI-6?"

"MI-nothing," Jack realized he'd been letting too much of his feelings on the matter surface and pulled out a lazy half-smile. "Just an old friend of Matt's, from college." He shook his head, the smile slipping. "Never thought I'd outlive the guy. He'd never even left London."

"You served?" Gerald guessed.

"Yeah. Pacific." Jack glanced at him. "You?"

"Cracked safes for the Allies." The man rubbed his neck in embarrassment. If Jack were a betting man, which he was, he'd say that Gerald had come by his safe-cracking expertise long before the war had started. Men like him, picked out after short stints in prisons, were often used for the war effort. Still, an ally was an ally. And speaking of allies and other species...

"Well," he slapped Gerald on the shoulder, extricating himself from the conversation, "I have a friend to find." He turned to go.

"You take care of yourself," Gerald said, motioning with a chin. Jack glanced that way and noticed a sharply dressed man idling off the path, too far away to be a part of the mourners and not quite looking the tourist part. Glancing at Gerald with narrowed eyes, Jack nodded, and went to find Peggy.

Idling this way he'd given Peggy enough of a lead that by the time Jack made it out of the cemetery gates, she was standing alone on the wet curb, waiting, heels crossed. She looked like a picture. If someone had told Jack a year ago that he'd be calling Peggy Carter his friend, he would have laughed himself silly. He wondered if Peggy would have laughed to hear him say it, even as she acted the part.

"Any luck?" Jack already knew from her cross expression that Fisher hadn't been of any help. It had been a long shot in either case.

Peggy shook her head, frustrated. She looked tired.

"Looks like Fisher was immune to your charms," Jack needled, unable to help himself.

"If you think your charms work better, you're welcome to try," she said archly. 

Jack coughed to cover his reaction, then had to let off a weary sigh. The day was catching up to him in a big way. "Let's get a taxi outta here. I need to lose consciousness for at least five hours." He rubbed his eyes. Did he used to get tired this easily before he'd gotten shot?

"Right. Sure." Peggy said.

Jack glanced up. He knew that tone. "Peggy?"

"Hmm?" she was looking about for a taxi, but there was something indefinable about her body language, a kind of inner fire and a purpose. 

"What are you planning?"

She glanced at him. "Jack, you're tired and I don't have the energy for an argument. Go to the Savoy and if you feel up to it tomorrow―"

"I feel up to it now," Jack said firmly. "What is it?"

Peggy looked at him steadily. "I'd like to take a look at the scene where they found Matt." At Jack's expression she added, "Just remember: you asked."  


 

* * *

 

To say that Jack was reluctant to enter a sealed off crime-scene was an understatement, but he could see that if they had to do it at all, the evening of the funeral was good timing. Matt's family wouldn't be around and at night the streets on which Matt's townhouse stood would be deserted. Roughly two seconds into Peggy's arguments Jack had realized he wasn't going to talk her out of it, so it was only a matter of having her go alone or him coming with. 

Despite the late hour, Jack felt some of his energy returning as they made it to the back-door of Matt's house. Having something to do, even if it was another long-shot felt better than the helplessness from before. Jack picked the lock with his pocket pen-knife under Peggy's approving eyes, and followed her inside sliding under the yellow police tape on the door.

The house was dark and silent. For a moment Jack thought only of the fact that he was standing in the doorway of his friend's house, almost expecting him to appear at any moment, befuddled and confused with sleep, but Matt lay in a grave. Some hours prior, Jack had watched his casket being lowered into the ground. It seemed obscene how normal everything looked.

Peggy turned to find him still standing in the doorway and frowned. Jack forced himself to get a grip, nodding to her before he went inside the living room. They split the work, Peggy using her heels against the old wood boards of the floor to check for empty spaces underneath, Jack checking the walls and dusty bookshelves. 

It wasn't easy. A person accumulated a lot of crap in their lifetime. Jack dreaded having to go through the man's bedroom, but eventually they made it upstairs still without turning the lights on, checking every nook and cranny of the creaky staircase and the adjoining bathroom.

"It doesn't make sense," Jack said as they kept searching. "Why kill? Matt didn't even know what was in that file. Me, I at least understand; I had the file. Him..." he trailed off, shoving the bed-covers back into their place.

"Jack, they didn't need to use lethal force simply to take the file from you," Peggy said briskly. She finished rifling through the cheap-looking bed-table and stood in the middle of the room, hand on her hip. "They didn't want to leave witnesses or they feared that you had read the file and would know what's in it. It would be so much easier if you could remember some specifics..." She sounded frustrated.

"That file's supposed to be about your activities in the war; can't you remember what you were doing?" Jack joked half-heartedly, prompting another eye-roll.

 _Sorry that having my brain scrambled by the memory device followed by getting shot doesn't leave me with the clearest recollection_ , Jack wanted to add, but he didn't blame her for being frustrated with him; he was too. He _had_ read what was in the file, but he'd zeroed in on any reference to Carter, and ignored most of the other information inside. A part of him thought he hadn't wanted to read the details. He couldn't remember anything besides the "civilian massacre" that he had thought Peggy to be involved in. How he'd crowed then! Now he knew that was obviously misinformation, and both of them had decided the file to be a product of Vernon's fishing expedition in the end. Jack had forgotten about the M. Carter file until much later, when he was recovering from the gunshot in L.A. and Peggy had made him go over all the contents from his hotel room, sorted into neat bins until they'd realized the file was the only thing missing. By then enough time had passed for the shooter to be in the wind, and Jack just couldn't make himself remember anything useful.

And now Matt was dead. It seemed too large of a coincidence. Were they simply eliminating anyone with a connection to the file? Would they be coming back for Jack to silence him? He looked about the darkened room, suddenly seeing a threat in every corner. The silence seemed ominous. On the way there, he had tried to watch for any cars following them, but he hadn't picked anything out. Jack shook his head to clear it. He hadn't had more than a few hours of sleep for the past three days and he recognized the setting-in paranoia. Peggy couldn't be doing much better. Even though she liked to pretend to be a super hero, she was only human.

Peggy suddenly straightened from what she was doing. "Do you hear something?" 

Jack paused and listened, but in the quiet he couldn't hear what had spooked her.

"I heard a closing car door."

Did someone call in a break-in? Were they about to be apprehended by police? Or... Jack's thoughts grew darker, did the killer have the same idea they had, returning to the scene of his crime for something they missed? Jack strode over to the bedroom's window looking out on the front yard. What he saw there was not encouraging: two figures in black, communicating over radios, no doubt calling for backup. His hand automatically went for the gun he was carrying, even as he knew using it in a foreign country would be trouble. Still, at least both he and Peggy were armed, having filled out the requisite paperwork as foreign federal agents and retrieved their guns from their metal carrying boxes at the airport. In another world, Jack might have foregone his weapon while traveling, but he no longer opened hotel doors without knowing who stood behind them either.

"Looks like someone was watching the place," Jack said as Peggy came over to look out from the other side of the draped window. "That is not the police." No uniforms and these two men were dressed sharply in suits. Jack suddenly remembered the two figures at the funeral, standing apart from the crowd. He hadn't told Peggy about that, discounting it as general paranoia, but he was going to correct that at the earliest opportunity. Unfortunately, it didn't look like they had much time to get away. The men out front were done conversing and were now slowly creeping up the front of the house, guns drawn.

"Oh!" Jack turned to see Peggy's face lit up with excitement at the prospect of their imminent ambush. "If we could capture one of them and interrogate him..." 

" _Interrogate?_ " Jack asked incredulously. "During or after they riddle us with bullets?"

She gave him a withering stare. "I'm sure you can hold your breath while I disable one of them, and capture his friend."

"And then what? Interrogate them here, at an open crime-scene?"

Peggy pursed her lips. Jack had a sudden newfound appreciation for Daniel. How did the man deal with her when she got like this?

Jack kept going; it felt good to let off some frustration. "Shall we stay here until more of his buddies show up? Or maybe we'll stuff him in the trunk of the car―"

"I've heard of worse ideas..." 

"―and interrogate him in my hotel room. We'll give the hotel staff heads up about all that unpleasant screaming." Jack gave her a look to match his scathing tone, "Or at your parents' house? Shall we take him there?"

"Alright. So we let them go." Even in the bad lighting, she looked flushed.

"We have to get out of here." Their best bet was to keep off the radar of whoever this was until they had more information on their hands.

"Run?" Peggy said.

"Run."

They ran; down the stairs, out the back-door even as the front door opened, and through the overgrown lawn, using the cover of darkness to get away from the townhouse unseen. Jack considered it a minor miracle they weren't followed, and once they were out on the open street they could pick up speed. He was glad he'd been going on regular morning runs during his injury rehab, because his lungs stood up to the test of a sprint around the street corner and down what turned out to be a less populated area.

"This was a waste of time," Jack said as they hurried away, looking over their shoulders every once in a while. He let out a slow breath to calm the rattle in his chest. "MI5 would have combed his place top to bottom. If there had been anything to find, they found it and it's lying classified on somebody's desk."

Peggy looked stymied for a moment, but she clamped down on her frustration. "Then we'd better find that desk."

Naturally, they'd argued over how to go about it. Jack was certain he could convince some secretary at the Scotland Yard to reveal the names of the government agents working on the case, and if not, then he had people who owed him a favour, but Peggy insisted on calling Daniel in L.A and having him phone the Scotland Yard in an official SSR capacity. Maybe she just missed her beau, Jack couldn't help the vindictive thought. 

They'd finally found a working phone after a good while walking through a bleak part of London, one of the streets hit hard in the Blitz. The phone booth itself was new, evidently maintained for the benefit of the neighbourhood and the construction work in the area. A building that used to be a library was in the process of being demolished on the other side of the street, a hydraulic crane frozen over the broken old walls, waiting for tomorrow's workday. It had taken them a few minutes to get patched through, first to New York, where women a lot like Rose Roberts worked the switchboard, then onward to L.A. where Daniel accepted the collect call. Jack listened to the one sided conversation Peggy had with Daniel. _Yes, she was fine. Oh, nothing exciting, just digging into the case and could you help? Oh, Jack had never made it to the Savoy, but that's alright, he's with me._

Jack lifted an eyebrow at that. She'd barreled through the rest of the conversation and Jack had to wonder if Daniel had asked where they were. Jack couldn't have described it. The mix of destroyed buildings alongside new construction gave the street an atmosphere of frenetic life, resilient in the face of disaster. The air held the sharp smell of fresh concrete.

"What was that about the Savoy?" Jack asked after she hung up with a rather dopey expression on her face from talking to her sweetheart.

"Daniel phoned the hotel and was told you never checked in," Peggy explained. "He was understandably concerned."

Surprise must have shown on Jack's face. 

Peggy shrugged one negligent shoulder as if to say, _what did you expect?_ but Jack knew that his and Daniel's relationship wasn't in a place where he could count on such friendly concern from Daniel. Too much had been said between them (by Jack) that wasn't easily forgiven. Even setting that aside, he wasn't used to coworkers checking up on him like that. He felt both irritation at Daniel meddling and a certain fond warmth, but he couldn't have said which emotion was stronger.

They had to give Daniel time to phone Scotland Yard and find out the name of the lead SOE agent on the case. Meanwhile, even if they found out which particular agent had the case-file on his desk, they had to actually construct a plan for getting it. No way would the Brits share the information out of the goodness of their hearts, not in the current political climate when everyone seemed to be spying on everyone else. Jack thought of how the SSR had closed ranks when one of their own had been killed, and figured Matt's folder would be at the top of the list for whoever got assigned to it just like Krzeminski's had been for them.

Peggy knew the location of the likely SOE office in question already, located right next to Scotland Yard in Central London, minutes from Westminster, in the same hotel they had used during the war.

"St. Ermin's," and at Jack's look she added, "You could say I am somewhat familiar with it."

Jack had heard of the hotel: rumour had it Churchill had held a meeting there with the founding members of the SOE, and the organization used some of the floors of the hotel through out the War. Its location to the other government buildings and the proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a convenient setting for the kind of government work that didn't require utmost secrecy.

There would be a couple of agents on the night-shift, but Jack had an idea for how to get them outside. The two of them occupied the next hour getting to an Underground station and navigating the London's tube with the local populace that was making their way home for the night. By the time they made it to St. James Park, outside St. Ermin's hotel, it was time to call Daniel back. Peggy called collect from a phone in the Underground and waited to be patched through again. Daniel gave them the name of the agent and the phone number of the SOE office.

They phoned in a break in to Matt's house from the same booth, with Jack struggling to keep his cool on the phone as Peggy laughed over his fake British accent of a concerned neighbour. He could hear the anger and impatience in the SOE agents' voices. They would come to check out Matt's house because they would think that his killer had returned to search for something. It's what he would have done in their place. Perhaps the SOE agents could even capture the intruders at Matt's place, making everyone the winner.

Peggy and Jack took the long staircase out of the Underground, walking through an alley lined with trees leading to St. Ermin's until they stood under the windows of the hotel, planning their next move.

"SOE used these rooms for offices during the war," Peggy said, "and men are creatures of habit. Things might have changed, but not that much."

"Would you be recognized?"

"I didn't train here," she said shortly. "I only visited a few times on an errand. This isn't a top secret location. There should be a...yes," she looked up at the beautifully arched windows on the third floor. "That's the one. We need to get access to the neighbouring room." 

The windows were dark. Their phone call earlier had sent the last night-shift agents on a wild-goose chase. They had maybe an hour to get what they needed.

Peggy turned to him, "Jack, haven't you always wanted to stay at St. Ermin's?"

Jack knew where this was headed. It was close to midnight and his reservations at the Savoy were probably canceled already on account of him not showing up. They went to the beautifully appointed reception where Jack flashed a lot of cash and Peggy frowned like a high-maintenance girlfriend until they got exactly the right room ― _oh darling, it's perfect!_ ― on the third floor, next to one of the SOE office rooms. Having arranged for his luggage to be delivered from the Savoy (and thus assuaging the visible concern on the concierge's face about them traveling without any bags) they headed up to Jack's new room. Jack skillfully maintained a neutral expression as Peggy curved her hand around his elbow on the way to the slow elevators. She moved away as soon as the elevator doors slid closed and in the mirror on the wall he watched the simpering smile slide off her face like water.

Upstairs, Jack took note as they passed the set of doors that had to correspond to the large arched windows Peggy had pointed out from the outside. Unlike most hotels in the States, all the hotel room doors opened out into the curving hallway, making them much more difficult to open since they had to pull instead of push (or kick). Jack was constructing an elaborate plan to flirt a key out of one of the cleaning ladies on the floor as he unlocked his own quality thick red-wood door. As soon as they entered the hotel room, Peggy strode over to the window and opened it wide. Jack took his time, glancing into the bathroom to make sure there was nobody inside. 

When Jack came back into the main room, he noted with surprise a complete lack of Peggy. The window was still open. Her shoes lay haphazardly on the floor where she must have kicked them off. Tilting his head and rather dreading the answer he suspected, Jack approached the open window and peered out.

Peggy was standing on the ledge between the two hotel rooms. The only thing that was holding her back from a three-storey drop was her tenuous grip on the edge of their window and the five inch foothold under her bare feet. 

"What are you _doing_?!" Jack held back most of the volume of his shout.

She was looking intently at the window right next to theirs, and moved to grip the edge of the stone outcrop above her. "Can you hand me a clip or..." one hand stretched out towards him and she snapped her fingers impatiently without looking away from her goal, "something metal for the lock."

Jack glanced about the sterile-looking hotel room and at the make of the wooden frame on their own window. There weren't many things thin enough that she could use to slide in the gap but firm enough to lift the lock. After a moment, he remembered his pocket knife and dug it out.

When he handed it to Peggy through the window, she flicked it open, "Workable," and set to sliding it in between the two frames, one handed.

"If you think I'm following you out there, you've lost your mind." Jack leaned against the ornate window and watched her work, while trying not to hold his breath over the precariousness of her position. 

Whatever lone passersby walked underneath on the little inner street didn't glance up. He was half-way considering where to brace himself on the ledge, when she turned back with a dazzling grin, having finally slid the knife in and unlocked the window. "God no, I'll open the door for you from the inside."

And she slipped within the neighbouring room.

Jack shook his head, about to go into the hallway, when Peggy's head popped outside through the other window again, calling him.

"Oh, could you grab my shoes?" 

"What am I, her butler?" Jack muttered, but he snagged the shoes on his way out of the room.

Peggy opened the neighbouring door for him as promised, and after glancing this way and that to make sure they were still alone in the hallway, let him inside.

The room was nothing like the one Jack had booked. A hall was a much more apt description. Instead of a queen-sized bed and amenities, this was a well-maintained office space with a half-dozen messy wooden desks, with shelves for books and various maps on the plastered inner walls. It smelled like a library. Actually it reminded him somewhat of an SSR office, but then spooks were the same everywhere.

Peggy slipped into her navy blue shoes and went over to one of the desks.

Even though this wasn't a top secret facility, something about breaking into another country's agency gave Jack a thrill. Since he'd been shot and recovering in L.A. he hadn't had any opportunities to participate in the interesting parts of the job. He'd missed the action! Besides that, the thought of them flying solo held an unexpected kick of its own. There would be nobody to bail them out if they got caught. Jack wanted to resent the situation that was entirely the result of following along with one of Peggy's plans. To his exasperation he realized he felt only excitement.

Peggy was clearly in her element. She seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy as they went about the large room until they found the desk of the agent whose name Daniel had supplied them. Jack envied her the implacable appearance of strength, because he knew that, like him, she was operating on fumes. Not that he would ever admit it in front of her, but as they went through the folders on Agent Dale's desk, the text in those files kept going in and out of focus. They didn't have much longer before someone would come back and they'd be discovered, so when they found the folder on Matt's murder they split the files inside. Jack frowned and squinted under the dim light of a yellow desk lamp until he could read the yellow page in front of him: it was a list of names and addresses.

"Suspects?" He showed the list to Peggy.

She shrugged and tried to memorize the details of how Matt was found in the crime-scene report. As things stood they had to quickly copy over the names and addresses by hand. It would take a week to investigate them all, if the list was even of any use. While Peggy copied over the names, Jack wandered over to the only desk that was clean. The garbage can by this desk held dead flowers, no doubt thrown out after they'd wilted in the days since Matt's death. The only things on the desk were Matt's appointment calendar and a stack of pens.

He flipped through the appointment book, looking through diligent handwriting, finding nothing on the day Matt was killed, nor the day before. Peggy looked up from her task, frowning at him until he shook his head.

"Check April," she said, before returning to copying the names.

Jack flipped to that month, knowing she meant the date when Jack had visited Matt in London to get the file. He recognized some of the names next to appointments such as Will Fisher's, Matt's boss, and the others were simply government department names next to a time-slot ― likely work meetings. There was an address of the bar where Jack and Matt had met that day, with a simple note "— Jack" next to it. 

Jack flipped a page and frowned at the note there: Camile T. Archer at Lunch that Friday, circled twice. A girlfriend? 

If they had to go through all the girls Matt dated to find out if he'd accidentally told one of them the wrong thing, they might as well move to London. Matt wasn't exactly picky about who he took home. Still, he probably didn't note their names down in the workbook, not to mention that Matt wasn't sloppy or bad at his job and revealing a secret to a stranger wasn't like him. 

"Do you have a Camile Archer on your list?"

"No," Peggy said, and jotted the name down anyway at the bottom of her copied list of suspects. MI5 wouldn't have known to look at April specifically, because they didn't know about the connection to Jack and the file.

"We could―" she was about to go off again.

"Peggy. _No_." Jack stopped her. "It's past midnight. We're both dead on our feet. Your parents are waiting for you to get back." She actually flinched; his hunch had been right, she'd completely forgotten. "Go home and we'll do this in the morning."

It wasn't the first time Peggy did what he asked without a fight, but they were so few and far in between that Jack celebrated a private victory. They straightened out the desks and left through the front door, letting the lock slip shut behind them. Jack called a cab for Peggy from his room, while Peggy sat wooden on the corner of the bed, too exhausted to even keep up small-talk. 

After her taxi picked her up, Jack was awake only as long as it took to shower and set the alarm. Even sleeping next to an office of a British security agency didn't disturb him.  


 

* * *

 

Five hours wasn't enough. He still felt tired. 

Frustrated and discouraged, Jack forced himself to come fully awake. He'd thought himself mostly recovered from the gunshot wound ― his chest no longer hurt on a regular basis and he had a good range of movement ― but there were indefinable differences in how he felt overall. It was difficult to remember, but he felt like he didn't bounce back as easily as he used to.

A note had been slid under his door that his luggage had been delivered from the Savoy. After Jack shaved and dressed, he called down to the reception desk to have them send the bag up along with a phone book and a simple breakfast. Once he assured himself that the contents were undisturbed, particularly the hidden compartment, Jack stored the luggage bag by the bed and looked through the borrowed phone book.

Under the white pages, he found three entries for Camile Archer, but only one with the middle initial. Jack checked the address and whistled: an apartment so close to the Westminster Palace had to cost a pretty penny. Whoever Camile T. Archer was she had plenty of clout and apparently wasn't afraid to be located next to a tourist trap. Or maybe, Jack's inner voice suggested, with so many government buildings in the area, the location was worth the cash for other reasons. 

He and Peggy had agreed to meet downstairs at the hotel bar for an early lunch, and he had a few hours to kill until then. Ready to head out and check on Archer by himself prior to meeting Peggy, he was placing his hat on his head when his room's phone rang.

It was Peggy. "I found something interesting," she said without a preamble as soon as she knew it was him. 

The phone connection was terrible so they reiterated the plan to meet face-to-face, moving up their meeting to ten in the morning. Jack waited for Peggy at the bar, and occupied himself by pursing the morning London newspapers. When she walked in, scanning the place for him, Jack lifted his fingers in a lazy greeting. Under the coat, Peggy was wearing a dark-green wool dress, buttoned up to the collar, and matching shoes, with buckles around the ankles. In her hand was a black purse. She ordered tea, and slid a piece of paper across the table to him.

"Guess who's been traveling between New York and London incessantly over the past year?"

Jack glanced at the list of names and dates and felt it like a gong of confirmation within him, the name Camile T. Archer appeared seven times. Four trips to New York in '46, three in '47.

"Daniel ran every name on the list to cross-check it with the flight manifests. His was the only name that stood out."

"Not a woman?" Jack said doubtfully. What was he, French or something?

"A man, according to the manifest," Peggy said triumphantly. "The flight data within the country is kept separately, but once they're awake there, we'll find out if Mr. Archer flew outside New York in April."

"Say to L.A.," Jack supposed and she nodded. Could they really find the shooter so simply? The agents of MI5 would have never checked the April log book because they didn't know that Jack had been shot with the same caliber gun as Matt had been, also in the chest. That had been back in spring and it was now October. Why did the man wait until now to silence Matt? Nothing about this case made any sense to Jack whatsoever, but at least they now had a lead. Something to do. They couldn't let this go, even if Mr. Archer would end up being nothing more than a benign traveler on business. 

Jack wasn't surprised that Peggy hadn't gone to sleep before phoning Daniel again and figuring this out. It meant a very late night for her, but she showed no signs of it, looking radiant and purposeful. He shared his findings of the address with her, noting her surprise that he'd been following the same hunch already.

"If he had something to do with Matt's death, we can't just waltz in there unarmed." Jack thought longingly of his gun concealed in the holster on his side, seamless under the bulk of his jacket. If Jack had to guess, Peggy carried hers in her purse.

"Besides that..." he paused, and felt odd about saying it, like he was asking for sympathy, "Matt's family is holding a reception in his honor this afternoon. I'd better attend."

At least he didn't read pity in her eyes when she said, "Then we'll find Mr. Archer after we attend the reception." The way she said it, it was like a done deal already. Jack didn't argue; it spared him from having to ask.  


 

* * *

 

Even before he'd gotten on the plane, Jack had found a florist in London and ordered a wreath sent to Matt's family. To the reception he brought a gift of Californian wine (the one redeeming feature of the state), likely to be appreciated more than the flowers due to the rationing still in place in Britain.

After signing the guest-book at the open door, Jack and Peggy went inside the church's hall. There were food tables set up along the walls, with impeccably dressed caterers serving the guests mingling about. It was clearly not meant to be a formal affair. Jack heard several chuckles as the discussion flowed within the small groups of Matt's friends and relatives, congregating together to remember his life.

Peggy hadn't asked Jack about Matt on the plane, leaving him be, but now she leaned in, asking, "Do you know his family well?"

"Some. Why?"

"Because that's his sister and mother heading our way," Peggy answered in sotto voice.

Jack looked in the direction Peggy was facing and saw Mrs. Walker and Irene, dressed all in black.

"Jack." Mrs. Walker took one of his hands with a smile on her weary face, squeezing it briefly between both of hers. Jack tipped his hat and handed her the wine.

"Mrs. Walker. I can't imagine what you're going through."

Irene went to embrace him, breathing into his ear, "It's good to see you again." She had cried-out red eyes, and was terribly pale, but otherwise looked even more beautiful than Jack remembered from before the war. The past years since Jack last saw her agreed with Irene and she'd matured into a beautiful young woman. He noticed the shine of the golden ring on her finger. There was a lucky husband somewhere in the picture, although Jack hadn't picked him out in the crowd.

Jack introduced his companion as, "My friend, Peggy Carter."

Whatever he'd expected to see on Peggy's face, he saw only deep sympathy for both women. Of course, Peggy knew what it was like to lose an older brother. Jack, having only his imagination to rely on, could simply feel grateful for his ignorance on the subject. Irene on the other hand, took a full measure of Peggy, her eyes jumping over to Jack. She seemed to expect him to own up to something more than friendship, and when he wouldn't, that only solidified the certainty he saw in her eyes. Not being together had never stopped her from a certain proprietary jealousy given to some beautiful women over a man's attention being fixed on any other woman in the room but them.

If Peggy read any of the undercurrents swirling about their group, she navigated the waters with flawless grace. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Matt's mother gave her the smile of a woman who was drowning in an ocean of grief above which Peggy's words soared, heedless of the crashing waves. Although her lips curved, the eyes were screaming with the pain at the loss of her only son. 

She had the grace to ask after Jack's comfort, such as where he was staying and how the flight across the Atlantic had been. Jack gave vague answers while she looked about the room distractedly, clearly hearing none of them. The pretense evidently became too much, because Mrs. Walker said abruptly, "I must speak with the caterer, they are probably running out of hors d'oeuvres. Irene will keep you company."

When the older woman left dabbing surreptitiously at her eyes, Irene turned to Jack. "Mum tries to keep busy. It helps her focus on something she can fix."

They nodded their understanding.

"I meant it: it is good to see you after so long," Irene said to Jack.

"You too. I'm sorry it's not under different circumstances."

"Matt would be happy to know you came." 

Jack didn't have much to say to that. He hadn't called Matt until he had need of him. A friendship that had sparked off between two young men in college hadn't survived the harsh realities of life. The Jack that Matt had known before the war was buried deep under the layers of his experiences. Probably if the two of them had found themselves in the same place while sober, they'd have nothing to say to each other. It had been uncomfortable to pretend to be that Jack, a persona he'd thought long discarded until he had to pull it out again to get his hands on the secret file. 

Irene reminisced of that person she remembered from their college days. "God, all the trouble you two got into. I'd hear about it from my brother all the time: Jack in a bar fight again, or: Jack dared me to do it. That trouble-maker, I thought, but Matt would defend you every time." She wore the smile of someone trying not to cry and he felt awkward. Back then she and Jack had gone out on two dates because he was her older brother's friend and it had seemed like a good idea. "And when you went off to the front, Matt would consume every scrap of news from Japan. My friend's a war hero, he used to say. He was so damn proud."

Jack, acutely aware of Peggy listening by his side, wished the earth would swallow him whole. The words, so practiced on his tongue, _just doing what needed to be done_ , wouldn't come, not with Peggy standing there soaking it all up. Irene must have attributed his silence to him getting emotional thinking about Matt, because she put her hand on his upper arm for comfort. "I always thought he might have liked to visit you in the States. I think he missed his friends from Cornell. There is so much I didn't get to talk to him about." Her voice trembled. "I should have pushed him to go visit."

"I wanted to say goodbye," Jack was almost surprised how banally normal his voice sounded. It shocked him a little that he could feel a hundred different things and never have any of it show in his voice. He kept expecting someone to call him out on it, but nobody ever did, so maybe he was just that good. It was a blessing and a curse, because Irene nodded thoughtfully, taking the words at face value. She thought she understood him, but the divide between them was as wide as an ocean. She would never know that Jack had indeed seen her brother after the war; once. If there was an afterlife, which Jack hoped violently there wasn't, then Matt had to know Jack hadn't meant to put him in harm's way.

Another couple came over to speak with the sister of the deceased, and Irene reluctantly turned from Jack to receive their condolences. 

Peggy said, "A refill?" She motioned with her empty wine glass. Jack, grateful for the change of subject followed her lead towards the bar. He'd been surprised by Peggy's ability to stay utterly coherent on not-insignificant amounts of liquor the few times they'd gone out as a group at the New York SSR, but at least he knew he could trust her tolerance.

Once their glasses were full again, Peggy turned to him, eyes lit up with a purpose. Jack felt a crawling dread. Of course, he wouldn't get off the hook that easily.

"I think you should talk to me." She moved to the side where they could stay out of range of any eavesdroppers. Large-leaved potted plans by the wall separated them neatly from the caterers and the other guests.

"What would you like to talk about?" Jack asked blandly, not giving her an inch.

"It sounds like you and Matt Walker were close, and the way he died..."

Jack bristled, "You think I should feel guilty?" 

"No. But I know what it's like to lose a friend like that, and logic doesn't always help."

"Well, I don't feel guilty."

At her speculative look, he had to give it to her bluntly: "I _know_ what guilt feels like. I don't feel guilty that Matt's dead. I feel angry."

Peggy studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Good."

As though he needed her stamp of approval. But it felt indefinably satisfying to know she understood. 

"Who did you lose?" Jack said, making Peggy turn to him in question. "You said you've lost a friend... not Rogers..." Friendship wasn't the most apt description for what Peggy had with that guy.

For a long second as her lips pressed together, he was sure she wouldn't tell him. She owed him nothing, after all. But after a long look down at the pointed toes of her green suede shoes, Peggy said, "My roommate." She cleared her throat. "Colleen O'Brien. She was killed by someone who was after me." After another moment, sounding like it was difficult to speak, she continued briskly, "It's not important why. But there you have it."

She'd as good as admitted she felt guilty about that, but comparing to some of the things he had to feel guilty about, it wasn't even in the same ball-park. A part of him would always compare her mistakes to his own to see how they measured up. He wondered if she did it, too. 

Maybe she didn't need to, so certain of her path she could see it in the dark. Maybe the conviction she exuded with every move, every word, every breath wasn't just a mask. He was on the cusp of believing it was real. He couldn't compete with her for clear conscience, the deck would always be stacked against him. Maybe if she'd been in his place, Peggy Carter would have found a way through that would still let her look herself in the mirror in the mornings. She would have faced the truth head on, the plucky heroine of her own story. 

"Did you find whoever killed her?"

"Yes," she said, with definite satisfaction. As simple as that he knew the killer got what he deserved.

"I'd like to find the bastard who put Matt in the ground."

That conviction of hers shone through again: "We'll find him."

A third voice intruded on their private conversation. "Maybe I can help."

Jack whirled around. He'd been so consumed with thinking about Peggy he lost sight of their surroundings. Gerald Penn, the crook turned government agent from the funeral, stood behind them. He'd snuck up over by the large potted plant.

"Has anyone ever told you: it's rude to eavesdrop!" Peggy said; not a question. At least they hadn't been discussing anything truly secret.

Gerald's face became grew sheepish. He shrugged as though to say it wasn't his fault and looked to Jack. "I've got information. I know you want to get to the truth."

"What do you know?" 

Peggy glanced at him, but Jack only nodded: he'd explain who Gerald was later. Jack had thought the man shifty at the funeral, but here he was downright fidgeting. 

"I know about the stolen files Agent Walker was investigating. It's what got him killed."

Jack clenched his fists. He didn't know he'd been hoping Matt's death was unrelated to the file until that moment. Now there could be no more doubt. The pretty words about his lack of guilt on the subject came back to haunt him with a pang. But he hadn't been lying: anger was still the predominant emotion Jack felt about his friend's untimely death.

Peggy said meanwhile, "Files?" She'd picked up on it, too. There was more than one?

Gerald nodded. He glanced back and forth around the room again, his face growing less and less friendly, wariness seeping in at the sight of the men in suits mingling inside. Jack wondered suddenly if he'd been wrong to assume all the people in the room were friendlies. Those men from Matt's place could have been all around them all this time, and they wouldn't have known.

"We can't talk here. Somewhere private. Tonight," Gerald said.

Jack nodded. "I'm staying at St. Ermin's, room 302." As Gerald turned to go, Jack cautioned: "You come alone, you hear?"

Gerald said over the shoulder, "I've got no one else," before he went out the door. Somehow it was the saddest thing Jack had heard all day.  


 

* * *

 

After they stayed an appropriate amount of time and said their goodbyes to Mrs. Walker and Irene it was time to execute on the second half of their plans for the day. The October sun had already rolled behind the horizon as they made it to corner of the street where Archer's building stood. The one good thing about Mr. Archer's interest in being centrally located was that Matthew Parker St wasn't far from Jack's hotel.

"No answer..." Peggy held the phone to her ear for a while longer before putting it back in the cradle. They stepped away from the public booth, looking out at the building. After a cursory walk by the door they'd learned there was a security guard stationed downstairs who controlled the flow of traffic into the building. Calling Archer's phone listed in the white pages didn't get an answer.

"Maybe he's sleeping," Jack said. She shrugged her shoulders, _so what?_ Jack nodded, "You're right, then I can skip to the fun part of the evening." He rubbed one knuckle against the inner palm of the other hand. Jack was absolutely anticipating meeting Mr. Archer and making him sing.

"Easy, tiger," Peggy said. "He's probably not home. Gives us a chance to snoop around before he gets back."

Jack was strangely looking forward to it. "Matt's house, the SOE office...Your plans are getting predictable."

She only smiled, reading the fondness in his voice.

"We still have to get past the security guard downstairs." Jack considered what he could see inside the glass doors of the building's entrance behind the wrought iron. "I could pass for a mailman or something..."

Peggy chuckled, "You _cannot_ pass for a mailman." At Jack's lifted eyebrow she rolled her eyes. "Alright, needs must and all that." Jack watched with growing bewilderment as she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her dress revealing an enticing hint of cleavage.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm guessing a place like this doesn't want to be known for entertaining call-girls." She reached into her black purse for her deep red lipstick and reapplying it thickly, before giving him a glance. "Go get into position inside. I'll distract the security guard so you can get past, and then talk my way in." She rubbed a little of the lipstick on her palm and applied it to her cheeks, strengthening the color. Minor adjustments here and there, she pushed the straps of her dress of the shoulders, and her typically conservative look was replaced by something far more sultry and instantly suggestive.

Jack looked her over. 

"Shouldn't you be showing a little leg?" He side-stepped the swipe of her purse and lifted his hands up. "Alright. Apartment 2F on the second floor. Try not to enjoy yourself too much."

"The very next mission we do together, you get to do the embarrassing role-plays," she grumbled. Jack smiled at the threat, because she was already talking about their next mission _together_. It was nice to think something like that could happen. 

"I shoulda got a camera," he said over the shoulder and didn't wait for her reply.

Jack buttoned up his jacket and straightened his hair as he walked confidently towards the entrance to the building. He pushed the door open and strode in, sweeping the entrance with a glance. There was the desk and a young man in uniform with a bored face behind it, and the curved stairs leading up on the other side of the desk. Mailboxes on the opposite wall from the desk. No elevators. It looked like the stairs were the only way upstairs. Jack approached the desk, standing so that he was next to the stairs.

The security guard looked up with a plastic-looking smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm here to see Summerson―" Jack paused, rifled in his pants pocket and pretended to look at a piece of paper there (in actuality, a restaurant receipt). "―No, wait, Smithson." He glanced up, looking blandly presuming. "He's expecting me."

The young man's face looked uncertain. "We don't have a Smithson staying with us...."

"Are you sure?" Jack faked surprise. He kept the man occupied, leaning against the desk with one elbow and for all intents and purposes looking like he could spend the rest of the day on this talk.

"I...think so, sir."

Jack frowned. "Well, can you check?"

"Um. Of course." The guard looked down at the book on his desk, leafing through and sliding his finger down. "No, no Smithson here―"

"Did I say Smithson?" Jack chuckled, "I meant Smith." He leaned forward, persuasively. "Check for Smith."

The man didn't get a chance to tell him if they had any Smith's in this building because Peggy walked in.

"Oh, hello," she said in a tone of voice that Jack had honestly never expected to hear from Peggy Carter. It was sensuous and downright indecent. Even the way she held herself was different. Jack wished he really had gone for that camera because the blackmail material was through the roof. He turned his face away so she wouldn't be distracted by him watching. He knew it couldn't be easy playing this role in front of him, but shying away from a challenge simply wasn't Peggy's way. "Could you help me?" she said. A lost little lamb.

The young man behind the desk jumped up, flushing as he took in the revealing décolleté created by loose buttons, tilted invitingly towards him. "M-ma'am?"

"I think I am meeting someone here―" she approached the desk and put one hand on the man's arm, squeezing and staring him deeply in the eyes, "Please..." her red lips parted breathlessly.

Jack glided up the staircase while the security guard was occupied with the vision before him. Last he saw of her, Peggy had her hands on the young man's collar, straightening it with perfunctory care, staring him deeply in the eyes.

He moved swiftly down the carpeted corridor. The apartment 2A was directly by the door, and if Jack had to guess, the 2F was all the way at the end. He took care not to make noise on the old wooden floor, moving lightly and listening for any activity behind the closed doors, without any peep-holes. One of the apartments had a radio going, some news broadcast. When he got to the 2F, it was silent.

A creak sounded behind him, and he whirled around. It was Peggy, straightening her hair back into place and buttoning her dress.

"Where's the guard?" he whispered when she came closer.

"Sleeping." So maybe her plans had been adjusted once she saw the way that young man had looked at her. He wondered what she would have done if it had been an old man with a little bit more common sense and self-control. But this wasn't the time for guessing. Since the guard was taken care of, there was no need for quiet anymore.

Jack knocked with a fist against the door for the apartment 2F. "Open up. Fire! There's a fire!"

The two of them listened. There was no answer from the apartment. "Fire!" Jack shouted again, knocking one more time, to make sure. Still no answer: the apartment was empty.

One of the doors down the hall opened and a concerned older woman peaked out. "Just a fire drill ma'am," Peggy hurried to reassure. The lady narrowed her eyes, but disappeared back behind the slammed door.

Jack examined the lock on 2F. His pen-knife wouldn't be of any use for something this heavy-duty. Beside him, he heard a jiggle. When he looked over, Peggy was waving a ring of keys at him. Of course, she'd grabbed them from the guard's belt.

"Step aside," she fluttered her hand to direct him away and he let her work.

A turn of the key and a strong twist of her wrist on the doorknob, and they were in. The living room was in shadows, curtains drawn. They didn't dare turn on the lights. With the door to the hallway locked, he could tell all of the windows were shut because the air had a slightly stale smell, and nothing moved; the place was clearly empty. This room didn't look much lived in but for a blanket on the fabric sofa and a few papers lying on the coffee table in front of it. At a cursory inspection, there were some old cosmetics laying in plain view in the bathroom which made Jack wonder if the man had women over. Jack walked towards the coffee table in the living-room squinting at the writing. Some kind of a phone number with area-code in London, no name.

Peggy went into the bedroom, looking around there.

Jack took the piece of paper with the number and went over to the phone to dial.

"Security Service Enquiries Desk, how may I direct your call?" sounded a female voice on the other end. MI5. He hung up. This was their guy, Jack had a feeling in his gut. This flat, everything about the way the man lived, it spoke of someone prepared to move at a moment's notice. He walked over to the closet in the hallway to confirm his guess, and indeed, there was a dark duffel bag inside. 

"It's him," Jack called. "This is our man. I can feel it." They just had to find proof, or if there was none in this apartment, then Jack was prepared to lie in wait until the man showed. Following another hunch, he went to the painting on the wall, lifting up the canvas. The bricks there looked freshly laid. "Borrowing your tricks," Jack said quietly to himself, thinking back to that room at the Griffith where Peggy had used a similar hiding place. He was about to see if the central brick could be moved, when he heard a click of a safety of a gun being removed behind him.

Jack tensed. Momentarily, he was transported back to that hotel room in L.A., the unbelievable pain in his chest spiking through him. It was only a memory. A man's soft voice behind him was real.

"Hands up."

Jack didn't argue. He wasn't dead yet, which meant whoever was holding him at gun-point had a reason not to shoot first. Maybe he didn't recognize Jack, or maybe he simply didn't want to dirty the carpet. He also didn't account for Peggy, in the other room, just out of sight. She had her gun and she was very resourceful. Jack just hoped he wouldn't get shot a second time before she even realized they weren't alone. He couldn't let the fear overwhelm him. Jack dared to turn around, slow. The man behind him was shorter than Jack, but not by much. He had a rather slim build, but the corded muscles stood out on his neck, where the balaclava ended. He might have pulled it down once he saw the intruders. His shadowed brown eyes stared at Jack resentfully.

"It's too late," Jack said brashly, loudly, thinking to both let Peggy know they had company and see if he could provoke a reaction. "We know about the files. We know everything."

"You know nothing," the man said in the same soft undertone, just barely above a whisper. "Take out your gun."

"You killed Matt Walker," Jack guessed, but he moved his hands slowly to his holster. It was only a guess, but this was the last appointment in Matt's book. There were no coincidences.

There was a long, torturous silence while the man watched him slowly take the gun out.

"Put it down," the man instructed. "He was irrelevant. He got mixed up in things he didn't understand. Just like you."

That as good as spelled it out. Jack put down the gun and kicked it over, under his burning stare. He had expected some sort of recognition from a man that had once held Jack's life in his hands, but the eyes that met his through the mask looked almost puzzled. Thoughtful. Not the eyes of a man about to kill. Jack knew he had to keep the man's attention on himself just a little while longer.

"I am a federal agent," Jack said, hoping for a moment of doubt and willing to stretch the truth a little. They had no jurisdiction, flying by the seat of their pants in another country. In fact, Jack strongly suspected that he'd fallen under some sort of a spell of Peggy Carter to even find himself in this particular situation. It seemed that life was always going to be interesting as long as he hung around her. Held-at-gun-point interesting.

Archer, for the man in balaclava had to be him, picked up Jack's gun and tucked it into the back of his pants, his own unwaveringly pointed at Jack's chest. He had steady hands; a man used to handling a weapon.

Multiple things happened at once. Jack realized that Peggy was making a move at the same time a shot rang out, knocking the gun out of Archer's hand. Jack had gone diving away as soon as he'd seen movement behind Archer. Peggy hadn't aimed to wound but the man let out a shout as the force tore the weapon out of his hand. Archer's gun went off sending a bullet wheezing above Jack's head as he ducked and rolled behind a sofa, out of line of fire. He felt the heat of singed hairs at his temple and wondered at his luck. 

Exposed, the man reached for Jack's gun. There was a crash at the same instance as the man weaved off to the side, avoiding a lamp Peggy had sent flying at his head, hands flying up defensively to his face. The lamp crashed in a shower of glass against the wall behind Archer followed by the sound of Peggy's gun going off multiple times. 

The shots had been aimed at Archer's feet, giving him no time to recover and arm himself. Peggy didn't attempt to ascertain Jack's safety. She sprang into the room, fists already flying, kicking out at the man's hand. She missed as he weaved out of the way, yanking her by the arm and sending her face first into the wall. She pushed away from the wall before she could smack into it and whirled, hair flying in an arch, surprising her attacker, but Archer had already grabbed Peggy by the hair, this time succeeding in driving her head into the wall.

Jack moved to come out on the other side of the sofa, circling around Archer, both to swoop in for Archer's gun and intending to cut off the man's exit and give him something else to work with rather than Peggy, but at that moment Archer delivered a powerful kick to the sofa. It slid across the floor bumping Jack into the coffee table behind him and momentarily trapping him between the sofa and the glass table that cut painfully into his shoulder. Jack tried to get his arms free, hyper aware of the seconds ticking by. He needn't have worried. Instead of following through with his attack on Peggy, Archer dashed out of the apartment door into the hallway.

Peggy looked back at Jack, peering out from behind the sofa. 

"Alright?" The corner of her lip was bleeding.

"Go!" Jack shouted, not wanting her to waste time.

She dashed off after the man.

Jack scrambled out from where he was trapped and went for Archer's gun. He checked the chamber: it wasn't loaded. The single bullet that had gone over his head had been the only one. 

But it was strange ― the man had been armed and yet his first reaction to being ambushed wasn't to kill. He'd tried to explain. He'd run, despite Jack's gun he still carried with him. It didn't fit the M.O of the shooter that Jack had briefly encountered in his hotel in L.A. The brazen attempt on his life and Matt's murder almost felt like it was done by two different people.

Having no time to follow through on what his gut was telling him, Jack raced after them, but not before he wiped his fingertips off the gun and threw it back on the floor in Archer's apartment. Without bullets it was of no use to him.

The commotion hadn't brought out anybody to the hallway. Jack wondered if the woman they'd seen in the other apartment was dialing the police with Jack and Peggy's descriptions. That would be trouble later, but they'd deal with it then. He raced outside, taking the steps three at a time, after Peggy and the man in the balaclava until they came into view down the street, with Archer about to turn the corner. Instead of disappearing into the populated areas inside the Underground, he dashed past the stray milling tourists by Westminster and headed towards the deserted Thames. Jack saw Peggy aim to shoot again, but she couldn't aim at the main body of mass: she didn't intend to kill the man. At least not before they could question him. If she had been aiming to kill, she probably would have taken him out. As it were, the moving target and her desire to keep him alive combined to allow Archer to escape behind another corner, angling for the bridge. 

Peggy went after him. She had hurled some kind of a large object she'd picked up on the way at Archer's legs, making him stumble against the railing. Then she was upon him. Watching her gave Jack chills. Her method of fighting wasn't particularly studied, but she used the environment to her advantage. Every kick and punch felt like an extension of her inner will. She had a kinetic beauty to her moves as she defeated the power and destructive force in front of her by turning them against the aggressor.

The stranger fought back with professional, polished style. In the darkness, only illuminated by weak street lamps high above the ground, Jack saw the struggle unfold part-way across the bridge.

Jack was still too far away and weaponless. He saw the stranger begin to overpower her through sheer bulk. Archer had an elbow around her throat in a move no doubt intending to cut off all air, and she was pressed up against the cold stone of the bridge's railing, from which she couldn't kick back at her assailant. He'd left her no avenue of escape.

"Peggy!" Her name tore out of Jack without thought, as he tried to make it there in time.

The man in the balaclava glanced back at him, then down at the woman in his arms. With a swift motion, he yanked at Peggy's hair tilting her face back like he was trying to break her neck. They seemed to be locked in a struggle for a second, before Archer made a motion that seemed incomprehensible to Jack until he watched it unfold: the man put a hand under Peggy's knees, lifting her in the air, and heaved her over the railing, into the river.

For a second, Jack's heart nearly stopped. He hadn't heard the gun fire, but he feared that the man had already shot her and was dumping the body. Jack looked over the edge, trying to see her dark head in the cold dark waters of the October Thames. The man in the balaclava was running across to the other end of the bridge, but Jack didn't pursue him. 

Jack took off his jacket and was about to kick off his shoes and jump in after Peggy when he saw her surface. She was sputtering and coughing, but she was alive and supporting herself in the water. Jack, swallowing down the breathtaking relief, yelled for her:

"Peggy! To your right!" trying to help her orient herself towards the shore.

He grabbed his jacket off the railing, and ran down the stairs; used one hand to vault over the railing cordoning off the shore and dashed along the sand and rocks to the water at the foot of the bridge. By the time he made it to the edge, she was nearly three quarters of the way to the bank of the river. Peggy was a strong swimmer, her strokes clean and precise, which was the only reason she was able to cut across the current. Jack waded in to the knee, catching her as she struggled up, coughing and shivering. Peggy's white cold fingers clamped onto his, and he pulled her towards him to the shore. Out of the water, she fell into him for a moment, exhausted, her small, light form nearly bowling him off his feet on the uneven ground. Jack wasted no time wrapping her up in his jacket, rubbing up and down her arms for warmth. Her hands were empty, she'd lost her gun in the Thames.

When he glanced up, Jack thought he saw a figure on the bridge, a mere shadow under the street lamps, staring in their direction for a moment before the man turned and vanished into the night. It might have been just Jack's imagination. He looked down at the woman shivering in his arms.

"Are you alright?"

Peggy lifted her head. Her eye make-up was running so she looked like a raccoon, and she had red smudges on her throat from the attack, but her tired eyes held a certain humour as she croaked out, "For a given value of alright."

Jack coughed, to cover his startled laughter, so glad to feel the vital life of her in his arms that he couldn't say another word.

After another moment spent shivering on the bank of the Thames together, Jack helped Peggy to her feet among the jagged riverbank full of small sharp rocks, while she clutched his jacket to herself for warmth. Aside from his squelching shoes and wet-to-the knee slacks, the front of his shirt was wet and dirty from where small rivulets had ran down Peggy's body. While he dumped the water out of his shoes, Peggy wrung out the skirt of her thick wool dress, sending streams of water running down. The dress was completely ruined, but at least she still had her shoes. They'd been held to her feet with clasps around the ankles, and she'd been lucky they were light and didn't gather water to pull her down in the river. They had to walk down the riverbank for a few minutes to get to the stairs leading up. He handed her a handkerchief to clean her face up, keeping one arm around her to help hold his jacket on her shoulders. 

They made it up the wet stone steps to the concrete embankment and Jack climbed over the barrier, before helping Peggy over as well. As they started to cross the public river-side park, a young teenage couple ran over to them. The girl cried out in concern, "Did you just go swimming in the river?"

"Yes, it's _so_ refreshing!" Peggy said with false brightness before letting Jack tug her away down the street. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the couple were looking between them and the stairs down to the water, arguing. Jack hoped those two kids wouldn't try to replicate the romance of swimming in the frigid, polluted Thames. He and Peggy would be smelling that for days.

One look at their appearance made obvious that no taxi would ever dream of stopping to take them in. Shivering in the night breeze, they made it down the smaller streets, grateful for the cover of darkness that let them avoid the looks of the occasional curious passersby. The sky was spitting rain again. Crossing Victoria Street, they passed an "Unexploded Bomb" sign, cordoning off a part of the road. The sign, a reminder of the war's effect on the still healing city, added to the surreal edge of their evening. By the time they slogged the half-a-mile to the side-entrance of his hotel, Jack was brutally cold himself and Peggy began to stumble. She seemed to be favouring her right ankle, looking almost clumsy as she gingerly navigated the cobble stones. She walked on her own out of sheer cussedness, but he could see the strain in the way her nearly blue lips pressed together. They had to get her warmed up fast.

Rain provided cover for their appearance. They both straightened and lent a purpose to their walk down the tree-lined courtyard of the hotel. The doorman of the hotel looked goggle-eyed, but Jack flashed the hotel's room key at him saying, "It's bloody pouring out there, mate!" The two of them moved swiftly past the bewildered man to the elevators on the right, while he looked out and up into the sky to see what these outsiders considered to be pouring rain. By the time that Jack realized they were leaving small puddles of water in their stead on the marble floor of the lobby they'd made it into the elevator.

Up on the third floor, Jack unlocked his room, making a quick visual inspection inside before they both entered. The room looked empty. While Peggy tugged her shoes off, Jack strode into the bathroom, checking there too, including behind the curtain ― they were alone. When he came back, Peggy was still struggling to unlock the clasps of her shoes with numb, nerveless fingers. Jack crouched down, pushing her hands away and helped her out of the shoes while she leaned against his shoulder with one hand, so exhausted she could barely stand. He noted the slight swelling on her right ankle, but didn't comment on it for now.

"Don't lock the door," Jack said. "I don't want to have to break it if I need to fish you out of the bathtub."

Peggy rolled her eyes, but she did as asked. He didn't hear the bathroom door click when she went inside. The sound of the shower came on quickly.

Jack looked about, struggling to order the thoughts in his head. The man on the bridge had seen that Peggy made it out of the water, Jack was sure of that now. It hadn't been a mirage across the river, watching them. Would he be coming back to finish the job he'd started?

Jack went to his luggage and pressed down the side of the suitcase. A hidden compartment unlocked and he pulled out his second, smaller gun in pieces, assembling it swiftly, with habitual action. He took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline still coursing through his blood. The barrel slotted quickly into place, with a practiced move. If he'd been thinking straight earlier, he would have brought the second gun with him. Checking the cylinder and loading it, Jack put the gun on the bed. Now he needed to change out of his own wet clothing.

The shower in the bathroom was still going strong while Jack laid the only other clothing he had brought with him on the bed intending to change into the white shirt, dark jacket and pants. He felt jittery, the shadows in the room seemed ominous. Jack realized he hadn't turned on the lights, and the only illumination was the soft light from the bottom of the bathroom door and the street lights outside the window. He'd been operating in near darkness, but he felt like he was seeing everything perfectly as though it was daytime. He didn't turn the lights on; the near-darkness felt right.

He thought about ordering some room service ― Peggy could use a hot drink, and Jack could use something alcoholic ― but he wasn't sure how far he could trust the security of this hotel. He opened the room bar instead, waiting for Peggy to finish with the longest shower of her life, and was just looking through the liquor options before him when there was a subtle knock on the door.

Jack's head flew up to look towards the entrance to the room. He went for the gun on the bed almost without another thought. Knowing he hadn't ordered room service and that housekeeping would have called out from the hallway, Jack's first thought was that the man in the balaclava had come back for them. Keeping deadly quiet, Jack stood out of sight of the door and considered his options. Peggy was still in the bathroom, which was thankfully not in direct line of sight of the door, and they'd have to go through Jack to get to her. Jack saw the handle of the door twitching as someone tried it from outside and his breath caught. Unlike that time in the L.A. hotel room, he was ready and armed.

Hearing the key slide into the hotel room door and the clang of the metal turning, Jack sighted his gun at the door, pulling back the hammer. As the door crept slowly open, the intruder outside seemed to hesitate for one confusing second, then everything happened at once. Peggy stepped out of the bathroom in the white hotel robe, steam billowing behind her, and right into the line-of-sight of the intruder. The front door to the hotel room finally swung open to admit a man in a dark suit. The bright light in the hallway obscured his face in shadows, but he held something in his hands, and Jack had to make a split second decision. His hand spasmed on the gun, the need to press the trigger nearly overpowering.

"Wait!" The man had a squeaky voice.

Even knowing he had to protect Peggy and himself, Jack couldn't make himself fire. He felt frozen until Peggy stepped forward by his side, cautioning, "Jack! It's Gerald Penn."

Peggy turned one of the lamps on, illuminating the room in a soft yellow light. Jack finally saw the face of the man rooted in their doorway. 

They had their informer.  


 

* * *

 

Jack swallowed, forcing his hand to lower the gun. 

He'd been so close to shooting the man, and Gerald seemed to have sensed it too, because he still stood completely silent and unmoving in the hallway, looking petrified.

"Well, come inside, mate!" Peggy motioned, swifter on the uptake than either of them. "Before anyone sees."

Gerald threw another fearful look in Jack's direction and shuffled inside, shutting the door behind him. Observing him now, Jack couldn't explain why he'd ever thought this man might be their erstwhile hitman. This man had none of his bearings, he was short and almost plump, he had the receding hairline of a man in his fifties and in the yellow light of the lamp, Jack saw he had ink splattered accountant's hands. Maybe safe-cracking didn't pay that well in peace time.

While Peggy went to Gerald, Jack stood frozen with his gun pointed to the floor. What was he supposed to do next? He'd forgotten. He'd nearly blown the guy away, could practically taste the gunpowder on his tongue. He tried to focus on what Peggy and Gerald were saying, but their words felt far away. Something about the paper and the files that Gerald was clutching in a briefcase to his chest. Jack made himself listen but he couldn't focus on the individual words. It was like a broken record, too slow and incomprehensible behind the rapid beat of his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them to take the scene in, willing himself to catch up with what was happening.

"Jack, put the gun away," Peggy was saying with a frown, throwing a quick glance his way, already turning back towards Gerald. "You'll shoot someone."

"Good," Jack said harshly. "Maybe that'll teach him about breaking in and attacking us."

They were both staring at him now.

"Nobody is attacking us," Peggy said carefully.

"Well, I didn't know that!" Afterwards he realized he was nearly shouting. 

Gerald was looking at him the way one looks at a strange diseased animal, but Peggy said firmly, "Maybe some fresh air is in order."

Even if he couldn't say it, Jack liked the idea of getting outside. He knew if he could just take a breath he'd calm down. The air in the hotel room felt dull and too stale. He let Peggy slide the gun from his hand and it disappeared into her purse. She was still in a white bathroom robe and hotel slippers, but she took charge of the situation as though she was dressed like a queen.

"You, stay right here," Peggy told Gerald, who nodded rapidly. "Jack and I will be right back to discuss your circumstance. And," she frowned, "how you obtained the key to the room."

Half-dazed, Jack followed her outside the room, down the long carpeted hallway heading to the veranda up ahead past the elevators. He had the worst feeling of having failed in his assessment of the situation, of being out of control when he could least afford it. If Peggy hadn't come out of the bathroom in time, he didn't know what he would have done. 

"He's lucky we're not cleaning up blood from the carpet right now," he said while they walked the never-ending hallway. 

"Nothing happened." Peggy was steady by his side. "Everyone's alive."

"I thought he was the man from the bridge coming back for us."

"You are allowed to make mistakes," Peggy said softly. 

"I nearly blew that guy's head off!" It could have been anyone. It could have been a cleaning lady. Jack's thoughts were flying in a hundred different directions at once.

"But you didn't. You stopped. You've been under a lot of stress lately―"

"Says the woman who was nearly strangled and then nearly drowned."

"This isn't a competition, Jack!" Peggy said in frustration. "It's not a zero-sum game. You don't have to be perfect. God knows, I haven't been."

Jack lifted his hands to his face. _I can't breathe_ , he wanted to admit rather pitifully, but he couldn't say the words. His chest felt like someone had put a vine around it, squeezing. He recognized he was hyperventilating in a clinical way, but the walls felt like they were closing in and he couldn't do anything to correct the situation, couldn't make himself act the way he knew he should act: calm, controlled.

Without another word, Peggy grabbed his elbow and tugged him out to the open veranda. A blast of cold air hit them both in the face. It was quite a bit cooler than earlier that evening when they had made their haphazard way from the river. The chill helped snap him out of the dissociated state into the here and now, but Peggy was bound to catch a cold this way. 

Her hair was still wet. 

Jack could focus on that until his breath evened out a little after god knows how long out under the stars. 

"I'm glad that everyone's alive tonight," he said eventually, taking a deep steadying breath, his pretenses destroyed. "Especially you." It hadn't looked good for a bit there, when he'd watched her go over the railing of the bridge and heard that terrible splash. He hadn't had time to consider it, but back there he'd really thought he saw her fall to her death.

Jack watched Peggy's face change between concern for him and a rather tentative smile she couldn't hide while she looked down. She shrugged a shoulder as though to say, _please_ , and, _I had a plan all along_. Peggy Carter wasn't going to catch a cold just from being dunked in the Thames in October nor from standing outside in the night breeze. She was a force of nature in her own right. That didn't mean Jack had to keep subjecting her to the cold on account of his own weakness. He had to stop wasting their time.

"Let's go inside," he sighed.

"Are you sure?" She sounded like she was prepared to spend another hour here on the veranda with him if he needed it, wet hair and all. Jack had never realized how loyal she was, almost to the point of absurdity.

"I'm not going to be responsible for your death from pneumonia," he said, "Daniel would kill me."

Peggy gave him a droll look but she knew what the joking tone really meant; he wasn't about to pitch off the edge anymore. She shrugged a shoulder, and turned to go to the room, favouring her right ankle again.

Jack hung back a moment to watch her pad back down the hallway in the fluffy slippers and the thick white bathroom robe. 

She looked ridiculous. He was half in love with her already.  


 

* * *

 

Jack closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the awareness was pushed away until another time when he could deal with it. He'd just clawed his way back to a functioning state and would not let anything interfere with his clear head. Jack was about to follow Peggy down the hallway, when a flash of light on the street caught his attention. A set of headlights illuminated the night as a black car slowly pulled up to the hotel's entrance. The cobblestone alley in front was a no-traffic zone meant only for pedestrians so Jack paused to watch what went on below. In the yellow light streaming from the hotel's windows, two men in dark suits got out, exchanging some inaudible words over the top of the car. 

"Hey, Peggy," he called quietly, "Do those guys look familiar?"

She went swiftly to look down over the railing. "The men from Agent Walker's house?"

Jack nodded. "Quite a coincidence to find them here at the same time as us."

"Not to mention when Gerald Penn is still in your hotel room." She had the same idea as him: they must have followed Gerald or them. Another car was driving up, more men inside.

"We'd better have our chat somewhere else then." Jack put out his hand. "My gun, please."

Peggy gave him a long look, but reached into her purse and drew it out, handing it over by the grip. "You've earned the boy-scout merit badge," she said dryly, "I should have brought a spare."

Jack flashed a smile. They raced back to his hotel room. Jack noted the slight strain in Peggy's gait again — her ankle really was bothering her. She wasn't dressed for a fight either. They only had minutes before the men from downstairs would be on their floor and no way to get her ruined wet dress into any kind of wearable state. Inside the hotel room, they both ignored Gerald, gaping at them wide-eyed, as they swept around him. Jack picked up the fresh shirt and slacks from the bed, throwing them at Peggy. She caught them without a word, sliding into the bathroom and changing in record time. Jack, meanwhile, grabbed Gerald by the elbow. 

"Did anyone follow you here?"

"No!" Gerald said reflexively, then contradicted himself: "I don't know." That wasn't helpful.

"Let's not take any chances. We have to get out of here." Jack called, "Peggy?"

"Ready." She stepped out of the bathroom in his clothes, pants rolled up to the ankle on her short frame, the suspenders keeping the slacks up on her hips, the white sleeves of Jack's shirt rolled up to the elbow. She went to check the hallway and motioned for them to follow. Jack did, not letting go of Gerald's elbow. The three of them ran to the fire escape, Peggy out front, Gerald's breath huffing out in gasps as he tried to keep up with the pace she set.

She had sprinted down the corridor to check the fire-escape door to get to the stairs off their floor, but by the time Jack and Gerald made it there, they could hear voices and footsteps coming up. The chances of someone other than the men after them using the stairs were slim; this exit was cut off. Peggy reeled back from the door and shut it. She looked about briefly and pointed to another door. The laundry chute.

They piled into the small room, and Peggy was already looking down the chute to see how bad of a climb it was.

"Is there any way I can convince you that's a bad idea?"

She tilted her head. "Not really."

"Carry on," Jack said wryly.

"I will, thank you." She grunted, tugging at the rope that carried the lift up and down. This one was a manual type, they'd have to use the strength of their hands to move it. "I have some experience with this."

"I don't want to know why," Jack said, joining her in looking down the duct. It was smooth so that the clothes wouldn't snag on anything. He could just barely see the dumbwaiter lift at the bottom. The rope that the dumbwaiter ran on was attached to a wheel high above them in the shaft on the fourth floor. Jack and Peggy tugged the dumbwaiter up to their floor, wincing at the clanging as the cart let out a frequent and loud report. Jack hoped the rope wouldn't slip the wheel when they had to lower themselves down, one at a time. Gerald was looking between them, wide-eyed. "We just need to get down to the second floor."

Peggy's glare was the only thing that made Gerald get into the small confined space.

"Wait for us on the next floor." Peggy instructed him before she and Jack slowly lowered the man down. Once he unlocked the laundry chute door on the second floor and climbed out, they quickly wheeled the cart back up to their level.

"You go next," Jack said, knowing he could lower himself down if he had to, after her.

"Wait," Peggy said, "Listen."

They froze, holding the manual lift so that it wouldn't make any noise. There was conversation out in the hallway, Jack caught a few sentences. The suits were already crawling the hallway outside. Peggy and Jack had run out of time. Even if he managed to lower her down to the second floor fast enough, the noise of the cart would alert the men and she'd probably be captured all the same. At least Gerald was mostly safe downstairs, ready to get picked up once Jack and Peggy dealt with their problem.

Jack looked down at his gun, then glanced up at Peggy. It was like they could tell what each other was thinking. He'd use the weapon only if he had to. They both looked back at the chute, then at the laundry door. Peggy nodded. They let the rope go and plastered themselves against the outer walls on each side of the laundry door. The lift made a screeching, crashing run to the bottom of the shaft, crashing to a stop without any shock absorbers. In the cacophony of noise, the movement out in the hallway stilled before the door to the laundry chute flew open. It had opened towards Peggy's side, so Jack had an unobstructed view. He hit the first incautious man he saw in the temple with the butt of his gun. Peggy shoved the door back away from the wall with both hands, sending the crumpling man into his partner behind him, knocking the second man off his feet. Jack and Peggy piled out into the hallway, Jack bent down to throw a punch to the man scrambling to get out from under his teammate. They'd gotten lucky, the man's gun was stuck between his body and his partner that Jack had knocked unconscious. With his follow-up punch, Jack dazed the second man enough to give them time to escape.

They went for the fire-escape door, hearing the stampede of feet behind them from the elevator down the curving hallway, but not daring to spend a second to look back. These two had come up the stairs and Jack hoped that they had an avenue of escape now through the fire exit. He went down the stairs taking two or three at a time and jumping down to the platform below. Peggy followed, keeping up speed, but he could see from the way she leaned on the railing that her ankle was hurting. He distracted himself enough by watching her progress that in the second when he looked down, he'd barely had time to slam the door of the second floor exit that had began to open. There were men on the second floor, too. Jack pressed his weight up against the door. It looked like the same kind of a door as the one upstairs, and that one was thick enough that he didn't fear getting shot through it. The men on the other side threw their full body's weight against the door but with Jack propping it up, one foot backed up against the railing, the door wouldn't budge. A door on the first floor opened; more men. Jack cursed under his breath.

"You are surrounded!" a new voice behind the door shouted. Jack hated hearing those words. He'd spent far too much of his life facing a hidden enemy. Here or in the jungle, it was the same, with lives including his own depending on his next decision. The door to the fire escape up on the third floor opened. Peggy got out of view, while Jack pointed the gun up the stairs. The man looked down and immediately hid, after sighting Jack's gun. Jack still had six bullets. He wasn't going to let the other side win. If they stopped retreating and tried to punch through instead maybe Jack could take out the man following them, and cover Peggy and Gerald's escape. 

As he was about to tell Peggy the plan, the man following them shouted, "You are interfering with a government investigation!"

"We're interfering...?!" Peggy cried out. She had a stunned look on her face.

"This is an active Secret Service investigation," the man from upstairs called. "Please lower your weapon _immediately_. Step out into the hallway with your hands up. Slowly!"

Peggy and Jack exchanged a long look. If it was a bluff intending to draw them out, it was a bold one. But on the other hand...

Jack rubbed his forehead. The thoughts that were occurring to him now were giving him a headache. He lowered his gun, calling out, "Alright, I'm coming out."

"Jack!" 

He shook his head at her, sighing. What choice did they have? He took his SSR credentials from the left pocket of his jacket and lifted his hands in surrender before stepping out into the plain sight of the man upstairs. He wasn't immediately shot, which probably meant the man was telling him the truth.

"I'm a federal agent of the United States of America," Jack called out. "There is a badge in my hand that identifies me as such."

It was difficult to say if other man was surprised by this information, his weathered face remained completely blank. He stepped down the stairs, his own gun sighted on Jack. It was the guy that Jack had punched out in front of the laundry chute, sporting a magnificent bruise on his jaw. His partner wasn't with him, probably still unconscious on the floor. Jack winced at the implications.

"Agent Carter is also in employee of the SSR," he went on, "That's Strategic Scientific Reserve." 

It must have pinged something in the guy's head because he nodded, saying. "Throw the ID here."

Jack did. By then it was obvious that they'd been working at cross-purposes with some kind of an MI5 outfit.

"Don't shoot," Peggy called before stepping out from behind her cover, her hands also up in the air. The man picked up Jack's ID from the stairs next to him and gave it a cursory look from the corner of his eyes, gun still pointed at Jack. In the past twelve hours Jack had been held at gun-point by both sides of the law; it was that kind of day.

"Can I lower my hands now?" Jack said.

The man nodded, lowering his own weapon. He pulled out a familiar radio from his coat's pocket, calling it in to his buddies. Jack had let go of the second floor door and it opened now, spilling out more men in suits behind them. He counted two more feds heading up the stairs from first floor.

"Agent Fisher? We have them," the man was saying into the radio to his boss.

Well, crap. Jack looked at Peggy, seeing a similar look on her face. It looked like they would get an audience with the illustrious Agent Fisher after all. 

They were marched upstairs, past the open door of Jack's hotel room, through to the neighbouring door that had previously been shut. Peggy was straightening her hair before stepping inside. She was still wearing his clothes, which, Jack could see from Peggy's determined face, would only be as awkward as he would make it. He deftly avoided the subject entirely by strolling into the room ahead of her, hands away from the body so as to not make the men escorting them nervous, but still looking casual and unconcerned. He had a hunch that their status as federal agents would buy them a lot more consideration from the MI5 than it would have from a criminal organization. Diplomatic incidents were to be avoided, after all.

Agent Fisher was waiting for them inside. He looked down his hooked nose at Jack, then Peggy. Gerald was standing at his side, shuffling nervously.

"Are you alright?" Peggy took a step towards the man, only stopping when she felt the nervous movement of the other agents around them. Jack felt his chest constrict at her concern for Gerald, a man she'd just met. She really did have all the faith in the world in people. Knowing she would inevitably get shot down for that kind of idealism was like a physical pain.

Gerald swallowed and nodded.

"You don't need to worry about Mr. Penn." Fisher said, a note of exasperation in his cultured British tones. "After all, we're all on the same side here. We've been trying to track down Agent Walker's informant for some time now and you've handed him right into our hands."

Gerald looked nervous, but he didn't look terrified. If Matt's boss really was investigating Matt's murder and if Gerald could help get to the bottom of it, then Jack thought it really was a shame they hadn't gotten on the same page earlier. He was knee-bendingly glad he hadn't used his gun this evening on the MI5 agents he'd thought were the bad guys.

Meanwhile, Fisher stared at Peggy. "What a mess. I would expect _you_ at least to have some decorum." 

Even as Jack bristled because he wasn't expected to have any, beside him Peggy bristled because she _was_.

"When you sent men after us?"

Fisher sighed. "We were watching Walker's house. You two breaking in surprised us." A frown began to replace his neutral expression. "You have no jurisdiction in this country and your actions interfered with our bureau's."

Jack kept himself still, even if on the inside he was more than a little off-balance. Of course, he should have known that getting involved with Peggy's plans would somehow land him on the wrong side of the law. He should have stopped her, but instead he'd jumped at the opportunity to have an adventure, to do something, be a part of something. He still remembered the thrill of it. He still only regretted getting caught. She'd well and truly corrupted him.

There was nothing for it, so Jack said, "We were only trying to get to the bottom of Matt Walker's death. The SSR has requested information and got bupkis. And Gerald came to _us_."

"Ah yes, Gerald and the American way. So interested in truth and justice."

Jack frowned. Fisher sounded derisive.

"This isn't about truth and justice at all, is it...? It is really about," Fisher's lips curled, "compensation."

At Peggy's surprised look, Fisher smiled his patronizing smile that constantly made Jack want to punch him. Jack relaxed against a nearby table instead, leaning back with his arms crossed, a picture of nonchalance even as he kept everyone in the room in his sights.

Fisher turned to the sweating man, now divested of his briefcase. "Gerald here thinks he won't be getting enough for his information, so he started looking for other buyers to put pressure on us. Unfortunately for Agent Walker, once word got out on the street that there was information to be had all manner of people became curious. You've met Mr. Archer, I believe?"

Peggy looked sore, but she stayed quiet.

"I know we can work through these issues. Our agency is prepared to compensate Gerald for his ...service." 

"I need assurances..." Gerald brayed.

"You'll get them," Fisher snarled with mild distaste. 

"All this was only about money," Jack said with an ironic laugh. He should have guessed it was something banal at the very beginning, but apparently being around Peggy for too long made him attribute noble characteristics to people out of habit.

Fisher gave him a mild look. "You'll find that money makes the world go round, Chief Thompson, more so than most of us realize."

Jack glanced at Gerald. The man looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Jack pushed away from the wall, casually; it was time to take care of themselves. "I'm well aware of that. Fact is... money is only one form of power."

"That's right," Fisher paid attention to him now, "Our friends at the U.S. Secret Service were kind to send you two to assist us, but as you can see your help is unnecessary. We have the situation well in hand."

Friends. So that's how they were going to play it.

"Should we take your word for it?" Jack said, knowing that since they wanted to keep things quiet that gave him the slightest edge.

"Heavens no," Fisher said, "See for yourself. Gerald is free to do as he pleases. We've come to an agreement, haven't we?" Gerald nodded a quick, shaky nod. "All that remains is taking care of our guests." Fisher pointedly glanced between Peggy and Jack, "We'd like to make sure nothing happens to them. So often tourists don't understand the local rules, such as laws against possessing firearms for example," he stared at Jack. 

One had to wonder if Jack and Peggy had been under surveillance ever since they landed in Heathrow, which might have accounted for the presence of strange men at the cemetery. Jack felt a vindictive spike of pleasure over how their plans must have been fouled when Jack didn't present himself at the Savoy, choosing instead to go to Peggy's that first day in London and then switch hotels. That must have thrown a crimp in their operation which was all that had allowed Jack and Peggy to get as far as they had.

Fisher was now obliquely promising to make life unpleasant if Jack and Peggy didn't fall into his scenario and played it out like good little pawns. He said, "I think I'll let you figure things out on your own, instead of trusting our words on the matter."

"We got it, thanks." Jack frowned.

Fisher took no note of his belligerent tone. "If you get out of this country tonight, on the first plane to New York, you'll take our thanks with you to our friends across the ocean."

Jack was going to say something but Peggy held him back with a crisp, "Alright. Sounds good to us."

That surprised him, she wasn't known for backing down in the face of authority, he knew that much first hand. But they'd messed up and used force against local agents, and Jack was all too aware of how small charges could snowball into bigger trouble. She had her parents' reputations to think of, as well. And what would their posturing matter? They knew these men weren't connected to the file that had disappeared from Jack's hotel room in L.A. They were done here, and Jack knew how to bow out gracefully.

In fact, thinking of the hot sun waiting for them in L.A. no longer seemed quite so oppressive to Jack after the damp, cool days spent in the British climate. Everything became clearer in contrast.  


 

* * *

 

They were basically being thrown out of the country. Jack himself didn't mind beyond the initial embarrassment, but he knew it had to hurt Peggy something awful. Even if she had made a home in the States, he'd watched her fly into her mother's embrace a few days ago and knew what London meant to her, though she never spoke of it. 

At least they'd been given time to pack their bags. Sensing his presence wouldn't be welcome, Jack had stayed behind the darkened glass of the MI5 limo while Peggy packed and said her good-byes to her parents. They thought she was leaving on another official mission. There had been no protests, only tearful embraces from Peggy's mother and promises to call. The presence of the MI5 agents around them had lent an official cant to all of Peggy's actions and helped explain her late-night exploits in a way that her parents could accept.

Ahead was a fifteen hour overnight flight to La Guardia. Jack dreaded their proximity on the plane. He had a bad habit of letting Peggy in further than reason suggested was wise, and he didn't trust himself any better after his experiences in London. If anything, she'd made it even harder to keep a lid on what he felt. She was the truest friend he ever had. The intimacy of just being next to her was shockingly raw.

If he was smart, he'd stay behind in New York and never set a foot in L.A. But, contrary to what intellect suggested, he had already bought the ticket to accompany her to Atlanta, then Denver, then back to the West Coast where Daniel would eagerly receive them both looking for news on the missing file. The only explanation Jack had for himself was the moment cut into his memory when he'd seen her go over the railing and thought he'd lost her for good. Followed by the feeling of gratitude beyond himself to get to hold her, shivering and cold and alive. How was he supposed to compartmentalize that he didn't know.

In her seat, Peggy wore a frown.

"What now?" Jack asked, seeing her pinched look.

"Oh... I'm thinking of how we will explain all this to Chief Sousa."

Jack wasn't going to say a word.  


 

* * *

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

>   * The title comes from a line in the song in _The Phantom of the Opera_ : "Sing once again with me, our strange duet..."
>   * St. Ermin's is an actual hotel in London that had been used by the S.O.E. during the war. It has a fascinating [history](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Ermin%27s_Hotel#Secrets). 
>   * The unexploded bomb sign encountered by Peggy and Jack on the streets of London is [one](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ec/34/d9/ec34d91822c04a37c20fc05e87b66300.jpg) [of many](http://l7.alamy.com/zooms/b1bde9eb90f84788b5c07bf2e555694b/unexploded-bombs-caused-the-temporary-evacuation-of-premises-in-1940-bttxgd.jpg).
> 



End file.
